


This Year's Love (Had Better Last)

by BeBraveDearHeart



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Hand Jobs, M/M, Military Backstory, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeBraveDearHeart/pseuds/BeBraveDearHeart
Summary: Arthur and Eames, beginnings, middle and endings. Sex, obviously.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	This Year's Love (Had Better Last)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in around seven years, done when I'm supposed to be doing paperwork. It's taken Inception's tenth anniversary for me to publish fanfic again and make me feel old. Oh well.

_This year's love had better last  
Heaven knows it's high time  
I've been waiting on my own too long  
And when ya hold me like you do  
It feels so right oh now_

He's introduced alongside the rest of the specially gathered team as Colonel James Sinclair, a high ranking officer in the British Army; their ambassador and officer responsible for Dream Sharing Technology. He explains with just a hint of smugness that he's been promoted up the ranks in a very short space of time. He adds the fact he's the youngest officer in his division, dispersing doubts before anyone even had them. He's an expert, a professional. It's why he's got the rank he does, that much is obvious.   
Arthur doesn't bother resisting the urge to tell him back that he's only twenty one, fresh out of a law degree at an outstanding college, hand picked for this by Cobb.

For a military officer he's very casual. Where everyone else wears expensive suits and ties, carries important looking briefcases that actually hold nothing but lunch and their phone James wears button down shirts. Patterned button down shirts. Floral, striped, polka dot, in salmon pink, lilac, navy. And always light coloured dress trousers, when everyone else is in steel grey, charcoal or black. He ought to stick out, look ridiculous, to be gossiped about and laughed at by the "proper" military types but he doesn't and he isn't. He wears what he likes and knows he looks good, owns every inch of his physical space, enters every room as if he owns the place. James is _handsome_ , all broad shoulders and muscular thighs, strikingly blue eyes and lips that should look too big, too stark against the strong jawline and permanent stubble but somehow fit his face perfectly. Arthur pushes that thought away; the man's here to work and so is he. This is groundbreaking, the potential dreamshare has, and nobody needs any distraction.

It's three weeks work and a psych screening before they're even allowed to use the PASIV. They go under the first time in pairs alongside Dom or Mal who are the only ones who've done it before. Arthur's paired up with James, sat eating his lunch and re-reading his notes before they get hooked up while James is busy trying to beat some level of some stupid game on his phone. As it turns out, he had the right idea. The somnacin, designed to put them to sleep to be able to dream, is still in the testing phase and Arthur's first experience as a dreamer is shadowed somewhat by him being unsteady on his feet and uncomfortably distorted landscapes which are a manifestation of his nausea. Mal tactfully avoids mentioning the swaying, dali-esque desert they stand in, an awkward hour passing before the timer counts down and they wake up, Arthur not even making it to the bathroom and throwing up in the nearest trash can. He can sense everyone staring and it feels not unlike when he went to his first (and last) frat party and got drunk for the first time, except thankfully he hasn't just given the cutest guy on the football team head and immediately puked on his five hundred dollar converse when he's done this time.

It's James who passes him a bottle of water as if they're friends, which is what starts it all off. Not quite friendship, not quite rivalry but a constant one upping, teasing and testing each other, striving to be the best. They're both the best but in different ways. James' skills as it turns out, lie in the art of forging - playing a part within the dream, assuming the identity of someone else, showing them whoever he wants them to see when it's his own dream. He wins a round once, capturing Mal so perfectly that Arthur actually believes he is her, even when he flirts mercilessly and kisses his cheek. Arthur's determined when they wake up from that one.

Arthur's talents are more suited to taking point. He doesn't build dreams but he runs them. He knows everything about everyone, down to the tiny details and he uses anything he possibly can as a weapon. He's precise, sharp and deadly.

Which is why even he's taken by surprise when James Sinclair disappears with the PASIV.What surprises him more, is that when he's gone Arthur misses him.

*

Arthur ran security on the whole team as soon as he could. James Sinclair's records were perfect, and nothing has changed the second time he looks either. It's six months of solid work, bribes, favours, Arthur scowling at his laptop screen on a nondescript sunday night when he finally makes a breakthrough, finds a long destroyed and buried birth certificate under Eames Renard. From there he can follow the thread of identities, fake passports, falsified military service records and a series of plane tickets dated in the last three months.

The _bastard_ is only in the next state, so close to where he ran from nobody would think to look. Except Arthur. There are hotel reservations under "Edward Astley" who on investigation only got a passport a week ago and has no other traces online, so Arthur hedges his bets and takes the next flight out of state business class because it's an hour's flight and he can't be bothered with a four hour car ride. Money can buy you happiness and laziness when you have enough of it, it seems.

He's made sure to dress for the occasion too, smart-casual but not so casual that he'll look like he's trying too hard in a luxury hotel bar. He strolls in at just gone nine (after paying premium for a room to shower and change in of course) in soft, steel grey suit pants with the waistcoat to match, brown silk the same shade as his eyes on the back half and pocket square, pinstriped perfectly white shirt three buttons undone from the top with no tie. His hair is combed back neatly from the front of his head and he's wearing the most expensive watch and cufflinks he owns.

He slides into a seat at a table opposite the man he came looking for who's sat with an overpriced whiskey sour, as expected. He's wearing what should be the most godawful shirt in lilac and mint green stripes with beige slacks no less, yet he's the most attractive person in the room.  
"Mr Astley? A pleasure" he smiles, polite and sickly sweet for the benefit of the other customers watching them both because they're the most interesting in the room. "You might not remember me. Marco Esposito." he holds out a hand to shake.  
For his part Eames isn't surprised to see him, just raising an eyebrow when he introduces himself, shakes his hand firmly.  
"Of course I remember you, Mr Esposito. Left quite the impression." Their conversation appears dull and mundane, everyone turning back to their own.  
"Can I buy you a drink-" he pauses, a hint of a smile tugging his lips, "Marco?" and when Arthur nods he adds "I'd say we're a good six months overdue." He gets up, goes to the bar before Arthur can respond to that.

Eames brings back gin and tonic, a safe bet alongside the fact he saw Arthur pause on the menu at the page with the long list of expensive gins on offer. Just for a second, but it was enough.  
"I'm surprised it took you this long." he says airily as he sits back down. "You always seemed so eager to please her"  
Arthur glares at him, sips the G&T while he figures out the best thing to lead with. It's a good gin and the first few sips go straight to his head so he ends up on  
"Why did you take the PASIV? You could just have detailed how it worked."  
Eames does smile then, leans forward a little.  
"Because why not? Higher stakes. More favour with my employer. More pissed off Cobbs. More pissed off _you._ "

Arthur scowls and proves his point.

Eames laughs, drains his drink and calls over a waiter for two more, not willing to turn his back on Arthur, not trusting him not to shoot him. In truth he still has the PASIV for his own gain; only sold schematics to his employer. Arthur drains his first drink too fast and accepts his second with a charming and self-assured smile at the waiter.  
"The only thing I still can't find is who you work for."  
"And you never will, darling. In case I have to sell them out too." Eames smiles with genuine amusement. "What are you doing here? To turn me in for something that happened six months ago, the records of what you say I stole pristine and sold as a legitimate but classified transaction between military branches? Or just to prove you could?"  
They both know Arthur isn't going to turn him in and Eames knows the answer to his question; he just knows how to pick at the threads that are Arthur, pulling little by little until he's unraveled and Arthur doesn't even realise until he's in far too deep.

Arthur intends to answer, but he's struck just a little dumb under the piercing gaze of too-blue eyes. Instead he shrugs, smirks like he intended all along to leave the question hanging and sips his drink. His eyes scan the room, looking for what Eames has already seen. There's a man and a woman sitting together, both eyeing Arthur. There's someone dealing trendy drugs beneath a table to a group of gap year boys blowing daddy's money, from England having flown from Heathrow two weeks ago according to the flight tags on their backpacks. There's a newly divorced woman drinking top shelf champagne alone while scrolling dating sites and a man old enough to be her father planning his move on her. In short, nothing of interest. Except for the man sitting opposite him of course, watching him read the room with the slightest, most painfully polite smile on his face.  
"Far too obvious darling" he tuts, getting to his feet. He puts a hundred dollar tip on the table and walks off as if he's just a man in a bar, not an international criminal who's lied his way into some of the most highly guarded organisations and all but walked out with their biggest secrets.

Arthur is irritated by it, tells himself it's because Eames is being smug and way too casual about criminal behaviour. He stands up to go outside for a cigarette, his one willingly admitted bad habit, finding a piece of paper in his pocket in place of his lighter, Eames so brazen as to simply have written his room number on it. His watch is gone from around his wrist.

He's _furious_. Eames treating everything like some stupid game is just _insulting._ He marches up four flights of stairs and doesn't slow down until he gets to the room number scribbled on the edge of a receipt. The door isn't even locked. Arthur feels like turning straight back around at the audacity of this man.

Until Eames has him pressed against the wall out of nowhere, his grip deceptively strong, holding Arthur firm.  
"Smoking's bad for you" he brandishes his two thousand dollar platinum lighter with his other hand, the one Arthur bought just because when he realised how much money he had and it was still a new feeling. Only a few months on and he's grown accustomed to it so easily it would be scary if he didn't already know he was selfish and vain and use it fully to his advantage.  
Arthur makes a grab for the lighter, Eames having it out of his reach and back in his pocket before he's even close. A breathy laugh, tickling his face and smelling of sweet gin, before Eames is kissing him, burning hot and heavy. It feels like he's stealing the very air from Arthur's lungs, the desire aching between his legs and making him dizzy. He doesn't have a second to think, gasps a breath when Eames moves off him, lips still tingling. He's about to make a noise of protest, whether it's at the fact Eames is kissing him or the fact he's _stopped_ Arthur isn't sure, but he doesn't have time anyway, Eames kissing him again, biting his bottom lip this time, a muscular thigh shoved between Arthur's perfectly dressed ones.

His second bad habit is the fact he's a complete and utter slut. If he's asked in the right way he'll do anything while weak at the knees and he's ninety percent sure Eames knows this. A hundred percent when Eames' biting kisses move along his jawline to the lobe of his ear and he rumbles  
"Take your bloody shirt off."  
Arthur's usually so precise fingers are clumsy on his buttons, getting off his waistcoat and giving up, pulling it over his head caring nothing if he tears or wrinkles a designer piece nor if he messes up his perfectly, meticulously styled hair.

Eames seems to give up on getting the shirt off and makes a noise that makes Arthur's hips jerk forward involuntarily, something low and throaty that might have been a word; he doesn't know, doesn't care. He pulls at Eames' horrendous shirt, feeling blindly for the buttons, fingers brushing nothing but the skin of his neck when he reaches his collar, moving up to his jawline, feeling the coarseness of Eames' facial hair beneath his fingertips. He moves his fingers along to those lips because he just has to, brushing a thumb across them as if this is something tender and romantic.

It isn't. Arthur's fingers are suddenly against nothing but empty air and Eames is on his knees, has Arthur's trousers undone before he has time to think. When he does, his thoughts aren't exactly coherent ones because Eames has those lips around the head of his cock. The noise he makes would be embarrassing if it didn't feel so damn good. Because, like everything Eames decides he wants to do, he's _amazing_ at it. Arthur is glad for the wall at his back to hold him up, fighting not to move his hips. He doesn't need to after a moment because one of Eames' broad hands holds him against the wall, two fingers and the thumb of the other around the base of his cock, where his mouth doesn't reach - though he has him pretty deep. The heat of Eames' mouth has him panting for breath, his mind grasping at words that don't quite join up into anything but it doesn't matter because Eames seems to understand.

Eames offers two fingers to his lips and Arthur sucks on them enthusiastically, bites down just slightly with perfect teeth to try and keep up some pretense of still being the calculating point man he wants Eames to see, not the sweaty mess leant against a posh hotel wall. He has the unnerving feeling though that Eames sees everything about him, especially in a position like this. Again, there isn't much time to think about it though because Eames pulls his fingers from Arthur's mouth, coated in and joined just for a moment to his bottom lip with a string of his own drool which honestly, should not be as hot as it is. Eames pulls back from him, just for a second.  
"Spread your legs, darling" he smirks up at him, Arthur gasping at the chill of the air on his sensitive skin and at how hard, wet with precome he is. He does as he's asked, restricted a little by his expensive trousers around his mid thigh. Eames takes him straight back down, one finger pressing against him, teasing before Eames slides it in, crooking it and finding his prostate.

Arthur's head hits the wall with a hollow thud as he throws it back. Eames presses in the second finger, Arthur groaning long and low at the stretch. He isn't sure how he's managing to breathe with Eames' mouth on him and fingers inside him, especially when he moves both and Arthur is already so, so close.  
Eames takes him deep, all the way to the base of his cock once and it's over; Arthur pulling on his hair too late, already coming hard, spilling over and over with a cry as his thighs shake and he's pretty sure Eames is literally holding him up.  
Eames, to his credit, swallows it with only a little escaping onto those ridiculous lips. Arthur groans and drags him up to kiss, taste himself on Eames. It's filthy and he loves it.

Arthur's fingers scrabble at Eames' crotch, feeling how hard he is. He doesn't care that his own trousers are undone and around his thighs, just needs to see Eames, touch him properly.  
Eames grins, moves right up against him, pushing his hard on into Arthur's cold hand and biting his earlobe. Arthur gasps at the sharp pain and his softening cock gives a twitch but he's focused on Eames now, wrapping his fingers properly around him. Eames' breathing hitches against Arthur's ear, a hand coming to pull through his hair as Arthur's own moves faster. He glances down to properly see, fixated on how thick Eames is. Not that he's fantasised about it or anything. He places his free hand on Eames' cheek, moving him to kiss properly again. He can still taste something vague in Eames' mouth and knows it's himself still. His long, practiced fingers don't stop, squeezing lightly. He runs his thumb over the head of Eames' cock, feels him just as wet at the head as he was.

"Darling." it's all Eames says, all he needs to because then he's coming, Arthur feeling it slide between his fingers, stroking him until he has every last drop. What isn't on his hand is on Arthur's designer shirt; he'll have to hand wash it and somehow even that thought is hotter than it has any right to be. Eames' forehead is against his shoulder, warm even through Arthur's shirt. Eventually he straightens up, casting his eye over Arthur's dishevelled state.   
"That look suits you," he says with a smirk, moving in to kiss him once, far more gently this time. "Tell Dom Cobb I can get him the Russian PASIV upgrade blueprints if he wants, but it'll cost him." Arthur clears his throat, nods as he buttons up his shirt. When he looks up, Eames is already gone. He's still not wearing his watch. 


End file.
